just stand and watch the season change,

note the dew and separate ideas.



remember that you stand alone. are not

alone

from criticism and contradiction. medieval

music plays, the town smells as it should

now.



stand and watch the river sing, remember the day

wind hit water.



you were not alone, neither was the grave digger.



he waved yesterday.



sbm.

it is different now. i find

that standing there all day

working.



is fine.



is fine

that i fly solo, that

no one here is looking.



for someone.



who is not here?



bats come early, stay late.



is fine



is samhain



sbm.

is very handy, so now
i have another egg cutter,
coffee grinder, he brings
old things for me, mends
old things for me, generally
repairs and sweeps, the

lower terrace.

ask him anything, he will
discuss, pleasantly. resourceful
is a word i can spell, i tell
you there are a few things i cannot,
do. so i have the handyman come.

also have a windowcleaner. he
did not come, yesterday



sbm.

regarding labelling.

we are not what people think of us, it goes deeper than that,

we are not the words people say, it goes deeper than that.



we are not made by our history, it is something,

deeper than that.

then  in a picture, it is not what you see on the surface,

it is far deeper than that.



#repeated.



sbm.

i find beauty in soap

the look the meaning

the cleanliness

and cross one side to another,
harbour to the beach.

no city here, this is
the country.

sea  tide
pools up by the bridge..

mawddach.

sbm.

to air and store, to host
the mouse that eats the soap.

no longer . it is stored in tins,
now, even the chewed bits.

it left the government soap
alone, that just dried out slowly.

in the tidying we lost
the bandages and rattling threads,
found remembered handkerchiefs,
starched, boxed with pins.

oh joy of tidiness, so much could be
thrown, so much can be kept.

these are the falling days.

sbm.

early for work, so
cut my nails you know,
hoping it will make typing
more precise.

i bought the set in
glasgow, arcade, then
saw it cheaper on ebay.

it has lasted well.

nals look better,
typong still *******.

sbm.

we discussed the hardness of the ground,
it is still quite cold. yet we found that moles
make soft places for planting.

dig up buried crocks for saving.

old photographs spur us on, to
care and treasure, to sweep and clean.

so wash and mend your broken plates
my friends, become a gentler way,
make a pleasant day.

look for mole hills, and old photographs.

sbm.

calculated the preferred payment,
extra to the ordinary, waiting.

compensation for dust,
fluff is different, bought out,
life is changed.

we live in the country.
short and sweet.

sbm.

the dream, the threads parted
a while. visitors came, the day

proceeded gently with stops
and dictation, who is this?

we worried over news, trembled
a while, gathered back the warp,
the weft. today we continue.

in the mill the loom
stands idle

sbm.

only one shutter
speed, htc desire.

so we clicks quite fast,
failing the photo challenge
today. It is a point to make
that any old camera will do,
if we is short on cash, or
undecided what to buy.

I am not at all tecnical
nor can i spell it. the coach

went quite fast.

sbm.

there is a glimpse of light

above the door, bend to enter,



the ceiling is lower now.



there have been bats,

bees building, as she will say

on motor bikes.



in here are the clothes,

the memories, dust mote,

cobweb and rivalry

for my affection.



drink this, drink this .

there is a full length mirror for your reflection.

sbm.

i may start with the bathroom
large panelled white
a geyser with gasp, gas there

was

plenty of soap/more in store
no charge

lock and bolt the door for quiet & solitude

not much changes then

talk your self to sleep
upper rooms where no
one hears

she seemed brave/ an opposite
to me/maybe/maybe she was hiding
too

we told no one

sbm.

blows all things out the window

it started with mohair, carried
on with warmer weather.

need a hankie, they are clean
and ironed in the box by the bed.

not everyone is immune, i have
heard there is high pollution in
the air.

sand from the sahara.

other things are clear, all clear.

sbm.

satie plays.

today the thoughts are changed,
each time, to see, what else to be.

to think without the culture, the nurture,
reborn to hear the news, to look anew.

we are not to blame,
it is the way of things.

seven thirteen monday morning.

sbm.

taste best to those who like them.

slightly ****, we ****, throw the stones
to the wild.

maybe they will grow.

the door bell rang, you came with
your sweet heart, when i was closed.

you drank the tea i made you, ate
my chocolate biscuits.

i hardly recognised you without your hat.

an odd affair. ate more plums, went to bed.

the words, no need to visit,
fell on deaf ears.

sbm.

i had the words ready.

a twist of logic.



you explained it all

to me. then the radio

stopped.



you wind the thread backward,

while some move forward.



i saw your picture again.



it means nothing.



sbm.

on occasions we go further than we did before.



the patch of dark is from the trees, a marking

place. the field of bells beyond. we have not

walked there since her mother died. we can

hear the people talk up on the precipice, look

they move slowly.



two are wearing orange, i think that they cannot see me.

i often say we, as if there are two of me. we stood

in the darker place.



turned,



and walked home again.



sbm.

Thank you everyones x

We had moved from the suburbs out into the country.  To walk through the woods, cuckoo woods, for the village for groceries was the way.  By that lane a field of cabbage plants rotting, passed by holding breath, or holding nose.

I forever remember the smell, imagined the slime, the slugs.

If dusk was falling, and fear involved, I ran quickly singing hymns loud for safety. Sadly it was not the lane that hurt me, it was someone else. Hymns don’t work in my case.



One time we swung the shopping basket between us. Lost most of the potatoes, and were sent back to find them.

Nothing was packaged, left loose in the basket weighed by the pound.



Kale was curly and cheap; we shredded it from the stump for boiling.



By now it is more acceptable, even fashionable, already chopped, stump bits intact and probably good for us. Yet I miss the whole leaf, where the memory formed.



No more do we boil it, softly warmed and stirred with butter and scattering of pink salt.

Slightly addicted these days, is it the taste of the memory that holds me?



Each day the good feeling is slightly spoiled on throwing the unnecessary packaging away, damp cellophane bag. I miss Mum’s basket, yet I do not miss the cabbage field.



sbm.

while standing, the realisation,
have got it wrong,
pale words a clue
in the breathing. the stone
set, left in barns.

caught the words,
hopefully in burning
hands,

thinking that the sky was clear,
wake to thundrous rain,
books tied closed
with string, broken
handkerchiefs.

concentration gone,
move now one
paragraph at a time.

earth and heaven.

sbm.

if the dress is ripped it can be mended,

if it is shredded it can be lined

with net for strength and longevity.

*****, will wash it, iron and air it,

loosely bind into keeping,





a collection, memory

of those halycon daze.





will buy a suitable hanger.

©sbm

i know little of sponge bob,
yet i like the small pants.

we had the counting
yesterday, walking sticks,
ferrules, the umbrellas,
most were there, the staghorn,
missing.

i like a day of counting,
finding all things lost.

i washed the pants,
ironed,pants folded neatly,
they are taken home.

sbm.

we talked of chickens, the coops, the wire,

he

brought me a specimen of lime mortar, held

with horse hair from the old wall.             we

placed it, discussed lime,             the burning,

and carried on.

made a pointy thing,                  will burn our

irons in the fire.

day of industry, company,                 winds

bent the rest of us, so we

followed the road to find

hedd wynn.

the light is coming through.

sbm.

who knows her name now,

times passes.  why do you



paint her?







how to say a name.

one syllable or two?



we were all young then, sliding

about in troubles, growing out.



how to say a name in pictures.



christine.



they wrote of you

in public interest, fact

with fiction.



christine.



who loved you

those days in wraysbury,

london.

who loves you now?







what shall I call you now,

christine?



sbm.

they will send a new one,
the music will come
through, replacement,
so it will be rated
highly.

one leg rides up. leaving
the other leg longer,
looking some what
silly.

the top is lost somewhere,
a tee shirt will do.

skin is clear, the birds are singing,
no interference here..

facts

sbm.

it seem there is a gardener in that village,

that will not prune, will cut every shrub

the same.



shape.



if a walk takes you slowly round.



the village.



you may see every place

he works.



someone said you need

a day out to find some

inspiration.



for verse.



sbm.

meeting
in the chapel,
house to pray on
small birds, charcoal
drifts. in air, in words.

symbols of poetry,
cut and pasted.

literally.

naturally .

the talk
came back to electrics
and ironing, side effect of
the tabernacle machynlleth.



drawing.

sbm.

( written by friends who know and shared here with their permission)

don't dwell on ****,
the past has passed.
and throw the drugs
down the toilet.

do the things that make
you feel better,
and avoid the things
that make you feel crap.

whatever they are.

eat and drink
things
that make you feel nice,
and be in such places.

know who your friends are
and know how much to load
on them.

force your self
out of bed in
the morning,
go for a walk
enjoy nature.

get a dog.

avoid the news,
and depressing tv.

know
your own routine,
and don't let other people
tell you it is wrong
or feel guilty about it

but also know the line
between what is your own
paranoia and anxieties,
and what is just normal
emotion
and reaction.

be aware of reality,
and how you are
deviating from it.

get over yourself,
and lighten up.

some of it is
indeed physical and psycological,
but much of it
is just ******.

Take as much advice
as can be ,
but it is up
to the individual
to make the decision to change.

as you know.

google brings strange memories.

my friends talk of the coat hanger
effect. hanging our wares on each others’
shoulders, bearing us all down with the weight.

share it out they say, with friends and family,
loose and flowing, mind your engine does
not pink, we must have finer fuel. not feeling

our true self can be an infliction, the grave digger
reminds us of our years, our sense of humour.


sbm
we stare at icons, hoper for a better price,
i went to the market yesterday.

witnesses came again,
reminding the words are there,
black and white, the finger writ,

he said, in the beginning it was so.

then having spake moved on, with
language unbeknown. how did

they let it happen, the flood, how
did the house surrender. a holy

place. a place of conversation, stuff
of the age, no empire building here.

there was scarambled egg, and a cabinet
pudding waiting.

sbm.

work is steady, absorbsion
as if the outside world
is ended. looking up
find it has not.

stamped a hundred times
in rhythm,
war of the worlds.

a call, a message.

i was not excited.

it is forever autumn.

sbm.

partially due to the weather,

state of the roads.



these are not just closed

due to snow, some

as cars slide, cause a commotion.



it is a steep hill, the crimea,

some call it a mountain



steeped in history.



plans change, while

the bus windows remain *****.



sbm.



nails



#notes and jottings

Esgidiau Meirw Boot Dump, Moel Bowydd Primary Reference Number (PRN) : 14626 Trust : Gwynedd Community : Ffestiniog NGR : SH69924845 Site Type (preferred type first) : Modern REFUSE DISPOSAL SITE Legal Protection : Description : A mound of slate waste covered to an unknown depth with the (?burnt) remains of thousands of hobnail boots, heel plates, nails, eyelets etc. Dimensions 40 x 30 x 2.5m. <1> A low mound about 35m in diameter lies to the east of the A470 (Plate 66). Its earliest phase consists of slate waste from a shallow linear working shown on the 1889 OS 25 map. This is almost entirely covered by a dump of waste boots. The upper layer consists entirely of heel plates, eyelets, nails, screws, sole shanks and occasional sole plates (Plate 67). Beneath this is a thick layer of ash, also containing metal fittings. Until quite recently there was a grave slab with a pair of boots incised on it along with the inscription Esgidiau Meirw (dead shoes). The stone now lies on the wall of PRN 14777 (Plate 68). It was probably moved by the land-owner for safe keeping after being daubed with paint. The dump is known locally as Tomen Sgidiau (boot dump) and dates from World Wall II. The boots are rejects from a factory that was set up in Blaenau Market Hall to recycle old boots and shoes for the army. (Hopewell, 2005) A low heap of slate waste lying to the east of the present main road. The tip is covered with the rusted metal fittings of a large number of hob nailed boots, and other small metal waste, including nuts and bolts. There is also a significant quantity of a fine silty material – possibly the residue of burnt and decayed leather. On top of the mound is a slate grave slab with a pair of boots incised upon it and the inscription “Esgidiau Meirw” (dead shoes). The feature is thought to be a World War II army boot dump. (Riley & Roberts, 1995) Sources : Riley, H. & Roberts, R. , 1995 , A470(T) Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement ( © GAT) Hopewell, D. , 2005 , A470 Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement Pt I & II ( © GAT) Hopewell, D. , 2000 , Upland Survey 2000 , <1> Events : 40503 : Gwynedd Upland Survey 1999-2000 Moel Bowydd (year : 2000) 43801 : A470 Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement: Archaeological Recording PtI&II; (year : 2005) 40295 : A470(T) Blaenau Ffestiniog to Cancoed Improvement (year : 1995)



see also

boot dump incomplete blog

https://sonjabenskinmesher.wordpress.com/2015/03/26/boot-dump-2/

an empty shell, i carried it carefully.



the bird had flown,

and while some are sad,

it is a new life and

we must move on.



carefully.



sbm.

four boats were sent. all much the same,
all differing,

oars to row.

a cross to bear.

three left, one remains.

the last boat.

sbm.

is there some thing in your eye,

did you see it properly or maybe

it is in the mind.  yesterday

came suddenly.



some of us weren’t talking, then

we did, yet some still don’t.



is this boring?  this is

the stuff of life today, random,

when life is soft, nothing precious

to worry of.



and now the snowdrops are out in the garden.



sbm.

spoke to me in welsh,
i answered him in english,
gave him 10p change
eventually.

taught me to say,
four pound fifty, so
we shook hands.
i showed him my accent.

laughing, told me to
go to the devil, while
i blessed him in his
native tongue.

from Mostyn, been
to a funeral.

sbm.

perhaps it was the weakness,
brought on with aspic jelly,
perhaps the truthfulness
that lives inside me.

i admitted it was me, and in
the confusion babbled and fought
embarasment. it is truthful
and honest work i do each day,
yet i am discovered now.

secrets will come out, lies will catch
you some day, they do say.

he was a nice man, who explained,
who takes photographs. I will leave
him gifts.

sbm.

always liked newtown,
now seeing the peripheries.

not been to glansevern, now
i have.

never had a red dress
made of paper cloth,
now i have two.

the same. i have not a
photograph yet,
so will shoes do?

sbm.

i asked the bear,

do you know what imbolc

is?

he stared at me with glassy eyes.



i told him. it is

today.



sbm.

part of a project
the phoenix rose,
made salads
with the usual
plus little ingenuities,
seeds and handy hints
for dealing with things.

small bowls
piled high
coloured with
care, with surprising
bravery.

it has been said
that when chopping,
please stand carefully
balanced both sides,
and think of me.

these are the small
salad days
of our independence.

I have no photograph.

sbm.

partying, music in the car,
talking to each other.

they are friends, we
all went riding, early autumn.

yet, they did not see
the kite fly over, the teasels,
butterflies on buddleia.

they looked at each other,
they are best friends.

sbm

have you read of them before.

the beetles here turn over,
legs waving, we turn them back,
then,
it is all repeated.

empathy kicks in
for all small folk
who suffer, who cry
in dark corners.

we know he will die,
yet cannot save him.

all is in disorder.

sbm

a small soft kiss on the cheek these days,

with a hug possibly. unless of course its

you.



not like the old days. i think that we did

not hug , kiss and remonstrate.

used the surname, all was proper.



even cabbage had titles.



then the kissing came, warm, gentle

kind.



yet i hardly know you, how nice.



sbm.

once the jeweller, now me.

spend the night thinking.

been mending a necklace,
pearls through the night.
some months now, gradually
threading.

thread so thin, i cannot see.

it was done, when
some beads slipped off.

i shall start again.

sbm.

bought for my house, have reconsidered, it will be for you.

a gift, alongside other gifts.                              look after it.

found in a fishing shop.  gentle hue,                  alongside

floats, and fish lures, now that is a wonderful

word.

over the road, the water man said all looked                 well,

so we glanced out at the muddy building                    mess.

they knocked down houses and trees                     you know.

driving home was all autumn and bluster.

i shall buy a pink ball for the house,

another time.

sbm.

note. there is no photograph.

friends come in differing sizes.

come with shells, black feathers

and fur. some come

bearing gifts.

some in paper, come unseen,

a feeling.

did you realise that

the wrapping was part

of the gift?

sbm.

will you wear black, look uncomfortable
sip tea. will you park your car
tidily? i passed through the
village yesterday.

will you ever know?

sbm.

is it welsh, did you spin

it here? softly balancing,

wool, in rows

in colours,

imagining boys jumpers,

slipovers and the like.



then buttons in red

with white spots, and packets

of various, needing to be

in my button box,

maybe.

a gentle day,

a gentle way

to earn a living.



sbm.

gets to the point, beats in the heart,
creates the dance.

starts the day nicely, still in pyjamas,
twirl down the stairs, spanish tea
in the kitchen, flamenco shoes
in the front spare bedroom.

these are the days, now it is
november.

i have danced alone.

sbm.